


WHAT THESE WALLS HAVE WITNESSED

by Mikkeneko



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Bittersweet Ending, Dark, Death is cheap, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Other, POV First Person, POV Second Person, Possession, Spirits, Temporary Character Death, and of course REVENGE!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-09
Updated: 2015-10-09
Packaged: 2018-04-25 12:35:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4960864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mikkeneko/pseuds/Mikkeneko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anders has a stalker. One who means him well, and one who means him ill; but between the two of them, he's going to have a very bad day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	WHAT THESE WALLS HAVE WITNESSED

**Author's Note:**

> Art for this fic was commissioned from [Lena, aka portraitoftheoddity on tumblr](https://portraitoftheoddity.tumblr.com/post/130790405454/commission-for-mikkeneko-for-her-fic-what) (whose commission info can be found [here.](http://portraitoftheoddity.tumblr.com/commissions))

 

They call you Anders, but it's not your real name.

You grew up in Kinloch Hold after you burned down your barn as a child. You ran away from the tower seven times, but each time they caught you and brought you back. On your seventh escape you made it to Amaranthine, where you took the Joining and became a Warden. Your specialization is in spirit healing, with a mediocre talent for elemental spells on the side that allowed you to pass your Harrowing.

You are six feet tall and weigh twelve stone. Your hair is blond, your skin pale and freckled; you like to wear robes in the Tevinter style, flashing bare skin framed with feathers as you saunter about the Keep, breathing in your newfound freedom. You're also a terrible flirt, easily amused, you have a bright smile and an easy laugh, and you're a terrible dancer, though it does not stop you from trying.

And you are a stain on the world that must be eradicated.

You killed the Templars that were sent to apprehend you, cut them down in the execution of their duty. You did it again when Ser Rylock came to hunt you down, murdered her in her prime. For these deaths you should answer, for these deaths alone you should die, although they are not why you must die. They died in the line of duty, carrying out the Maker's will, and already He has called them to their final rest; they shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Void, for there is no darkness nor death in the Maker's light.

Do you ever even think on them, those good people that you murdered? Do their spectres ever haunt you, clinging to your shoulders and whispering cold truths into your ears? It seems you do not; you carouse with your fellow Wardens, you fill your body with food and drink and laugh in the face of righteousness.

The party is over, and you were among the last men standing; the Keep is quiet now but for the stutters and coughs of a fortress stumbling its way into bed. You lasted through thirty-three verses of that awful drinking song and you are still on your feet, though you sway from side to side as you walk and use the wall to help remind you which direction is up. You sing a little song to yourself, a tuneless humming about cats and demons, and laugh softly when you believe yourself alone. Always so funny, so charming; so personable with such a winning smile, winding your way around the hearts and minds of men and blinding them to the truth of your own monstrousness. Only those with the Light in their eyes can see it, can see the shroud of lies that you drape over others, although even that is not why you must die.

Your tainted blood is a darkness, an unclean itching in the brain; do you feel it too, the presence of others like you? Perhaps the drink clouds your mind too much for that. Or perhaps you feel it, but pay it no mind - this is the stronghold of the Wardens, and Wardens are everywhere, and you let down your guard. You think yourself safe here, barricaded by stone walls and the bodies of your fellows. You think yourself protected, by the favor of the Hero of Ferelden, by your conscription and your Joining. You think yourself free.

And  _that_  is why you must die.

Magic is meant to serve man, and so are you. Mages must be kept in their place, collared and controlled, but you refuse all collars and spurn all control. And you have killed. There is no chance now of redeeming you. Once a dog has known the taste of human blood, there is nothing for it but to put it down.

You turn a corner, still singing softly to yourself, into a short blind hallway behind the stairs. The shadows trip you, and you stumble; you blunder into the wall and bounce back again, and laugh as though this is the funniest thing that ever happened to you. "What are you, the Fade?" you mumble nonsense to yourself. "Walls are... walls should stay put. Not move around 'n get in people's way... Bad walls, Fade walls..."

You're alone.

Except that you're not.

You hear no footsteps, no whisper of cloth and leather. You know nothing until the first Smite hits you, the Maker's light crashing down from heaven to sear the blood of the unrighteous. You are stunned, eyes glazed and mouth going slack, your feet are leaden and you cannot run as an arm wraps around the front of your throat, hauls you back.

The first thrust catches on Warden leather, and turns; it only scrapes your shoulder, cutting through brigandine cloth and drawing blood. You start to cry out but then the Silence hits, and there is no casting, no crying, no voice or sound at all. The second thrust hits home; the point drives through the leather and through flesh and between the ribs to pierce your lungs. You gasp, bubbling with liquid, and your mouth fills with blood.

There will be no more crying out; you convulse once, breaking free of the deadly embrace and fall forward onto the floor. You catch yourself on your hands but your arms have no strength to them, and your face hits the stone a moment later. You cough, blood fountaining over the stones and pouring from your back; you struggle to rise, to turn, to strike back.

The third thrust finds your heart.

Blood pours out, twice-tainted, onto the stones; in the dim light it looks black, a shimmering pool of darkness that creeps from wall to wall. For a few seconds it gushes, spurting out in rhythmic, frantic beats; then it slows to a steady stream as the heartbeat stutters and stops. Breathing strangles and stops. Everything stops.

Your name was Anders, although that was not your real name; you are nameless now, and evermore. No more a warden, no more an apostate, no more a mage; you are nothing more than meat.

And the Maker's will is done.

Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter. Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow; in their blood the Maker's will is written. Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.

* * *

Sigrun weeps. She kneels over the body, her small form made even smaller in grief, and sobs without reprieve. Tears run down her face and drip off her brands, and mix with the pool of blood still drying on the stone floor.

Oghren curses. He is ranting low and steady, his face blotched a mottled red and purple, blistering anger bottled up with nowhere to go. One meaty fist clutches at his battleaxe, bouncing the haft off his palm as the steady stream of invective drips from his lips.

Nathaniel prays. He alone had the height and strength to maneuver the tall, lanky body around, to straighten the limbs and close the staring, milky eyes. His head is bowed, his eyes closed and hands folded as he recites the same prayer that he has recited a hundred times, over every body we lay to rest in a shallow grave by the roadside.

Velanna paces. From wall to wall, restless as a gathering storm, her magic flickers across her skin, barely leashed by her straining self-control. She is as furious as Oghren but cleaner, more elemental in her fury, less civilized, less discerning.

Anders does nothing at all. He cannot; he is dead. He is dead where he should be alive, should be safe, should be vibrant and laughing and ... protected. He should have been protected.

And I -

I am caught in the Veil, reverberating with the shock of violence, of murder, of death. Such fraught events in the physical world leave their mark on the Fade, this I have seen a thousand times - battles or duels echoing endlessly into eternity long after their memory has passed from the mind of mortals. I have known them, I have  _been_  them, fighting their causes in a thousand thousand nights in the Fade... but I have never seen it like this before. Never seen the moment of impression, where the fabric of the world itself screams out, the moment of impact that sets off a thousand echoes. Never from this side, trapped behind the Veil as the Fade twists and howls.

Never dreamed that I would see my two worlds meet this way, with the assassination of one of my only friends.

I am caught in the Veil, watching the scene of your death play out over and over and over again in the Fade, and there is  _nothing_ I can do to stop it.

"How could this have happened?" Sigrun sobs, raising her head as a new wash of tears spills from her bright blue eyes. "We're in the m-middle of the Keep! It shu-should have been safe!"

"Need you even ask?" Velanna demands, voice harshed through clenched teeth. "Who else in Vigil's Keep would have reason to harm a mage? This is the work of tha _t lin'alas harenal shemlen!_  That Templar, Rolan!"

"Too sodding right it was!" Oghren bellows, leaping to his feet and taking a swing at the wall; sparks fly and a small chip flies out, but no more. "What are we waiting for?"

"Oghren, no!" Nathaniel looks up from his prayers. "We have no evidence."

"Our brother has just been murdered and you talk about  _evidence?"_  Velanna says incredulously. "Ever since that shem arrived at the Keep he's done nothing but dog and harass Anders! Who else could it have been? Who else would have reason? Anders was a  _healer_ \- he harmed no one!"

"It was Rolan," I say quietly. The scene plays out before my eyes as I say it; the shadowy figure, the paint-blacked knife. Blood, pouring blood, shivering the veil with a mage's power as it fountains over the stones.

"How can you be so sure?" Nathaniel looks at me intently.

"My surety is not an issue," I answer. "He was the one."

"I believe it," Nathaniel says heavily. "I do - but we have no proof. Motive alone will never stand up in a court of law, and we can't exactly put a Fade spirit up on the witness stand. Even if we could - listen, the standards of proof for a case of murder between a Templar and a mage are incredibly stringent. Even if we could prove that Rolan was here last night, all he would have to do was claim that Anders was using an illegal form of magic, and there'd be no one around to contradict it. We cannot prove that he was  _not_  acting in the office of a Templar."

"How can you say that," Velanna says, and there's a tremor in her voice that rises rapidly to a scream.  _"HOW CAN YOU SAY THAT!_ Does the 'office of a Templar' permit murdering unarmed men at will? Do you mean to suggest that traitor will go unpunished - will walk away unscratched? And if it is true, if it is true that mages are simply easy prey for him, then who do you think is next? What could possibly stop him from turning his sights on  _me ?_  Will it be my body in a shadowed corridor tomorrow while you mouth pious nothings about 'standards of proof' over my corpse?"

Nathaniel rises and swiftly pulls her into his arms; her small fists slam into his chest, and he winces but does not let go. "No! Never, my love," he promises her fiercely. "I will not let that happen. I  _will_  protect you."

For a moment the air between them sings with feeling, until it is broken by a low, desolate cry from Sigrun. "Why didn't anybody protect Anders?" she asks.

Oghren slams his fist into the wall, inches from the mark his axe left; there is the crunch of bone giving way, and it leaves a dark smear of blood on the stone. "I don't give a quart of nug's piss what any stonecursed court has to say about this," he says, low and fierce. "I don't figure it'll ever need to get that far. Give me five minutes in a dark alley with Rolan, and he'll never lay a gangue-rottin' hand on any brother or sister of mine  _ever_  again."

"Five minutes?" Velanna retorts, pulling out of Nathaniel's arms. "Your axe must be as slow as your wits, then. Give me five  _seconds_  and I will wipe this filth from the face of the planet."

Oghren grins, an expression more usually reserved for the twisted faces of the darkspawn. "Ah, but it's no fun if it's over too quick," he scoffs. He opens and closes his hand, flexing it against the pain; yesterday, Anders would have scolded him for the carelessness and moved to heal it with a spell. He will not now, he will not ever again, and over and over again in the Fade I see the shadowed blade move -

"Stop this!" Nathaniel says, interposing himself between Velanna and Oghren. "Stop this, now! Don't let your anger rule you now. The Commander is gone, and now Anders - the last thing we can afford now is to set the Templar Order at war with the Grey Wardens!"

"Why are you defending them?" Velanna rages.  _"Harenal, vhelan!"_

Nathaniel's face darkens with anger. "Do you think I  _like_  being the Templar's advocate here?" he exclaims. "Do you think I enjoy having to be the voice of reason? I don't! Anders was my brother as much he was yours! But  _someone has to be!"_

"What can we do?" Sigrun appeals to him, her voice wretched with tears. "Nate, what can we do? You keep saying that this won't help and that won't help... What  _will_  help?"

"I... I don't know," Nathaniel says, sounding wretched. When the anger fades, all that is left is lost. "All my knowledge of law is in Chantry and civil matters. Among the Wardens it may be different... it's almost certainly different, but I don't know how they deal with this type of internal conflict. It must happen sometimes, but they wouldn't want to advertise it to outsiders. Maybe if we bring this to the Constable -"

"That statue-sucking whorespawn of a Constable?" Oghren spits on the stones. "She goes around with her tongue so far up the Chantry's ass that she's licking the backs of Andraste's teeth. I wouldn't ask her for a whisker at a nug farm, let alone justice for her own people."

Nathaniel doesn't argue with Oghren's assessment; given his deep respect for the Chantry and for the Wardens' command, that absence is as telling as a shout. He brings his hands up to his head, dragging his fingers through the hair. "I can write to Weisshaupt," he says finally. "To the First Warden... they would need to be informed either way, and this way we can be sure they get a... first-hand account of what happened. They'll know what to do - if nothing else, they would be able to locate the Commander and give... give her the news..."

"Do what you want," Oghren grunts. "Me - I'm not going to wait for Weisshaupt to get off their collective stones and pick up their shit. The next time that dust-bugger Rolan finds himself alone, he's going to find himself not alone. And then he's gonna find himself dead."

"And what will that accomplish?" Nathaniel demands. "Will it bring Anders back to us? Do you think the news will reach him, at the Maker's side?"

"No, but it'll make me feel better," Oghren says, and gives Velanna a pat on the knee that she doesn't even kick him for, though she slaps his arm away with a scowl. "And it'll make the world a safer place for Bitch Tits an' those like her in the bargain."

"I as well," Velanna says fiercely, and so strange it is to see she and the dwarf standing together, united in purpose. "I owe Weisshaupt nothing, and your court of human laws less. My care is only for these assembled here - and one of our number is slain. I will not let this stand."

Nathaniel shakes his head desperately. "Please, Velanna, don't do this. You would stain your hands, they'll come for you next -"

"I'm in too!" Sigrun stands up, dragging a sleeve over her eyes as her tears dry up at last. She tilts her chin up defiantly. "What, Nate? Don't tell me you expected better of me. A duster is what I was born and it's what I am, and if your human laws and courts won't give Anders justice, then they can go eat gangue."

"What you're talking about isn't justice!" Nathaniel shouts. "It's nothing more than vengeance, pure and simple!"

"So be it," Velanna says simply. Nathaniel grits his teeth.

And then he swings around to face me, clenching a hand on my shoulder in appeal. "Justice, you know this isn't right!" he exclaims. "Talk some sense into them, if anyone can!"

Oghren looks at me, a shrewd expression on his fury-red face. "No kiddin', I honestly expected to hear from you earlier," he said. "I thought you'd be raging up and down the hallway calling for Rolan's nuts. You know he did it, you know it was murder, so why aren't you out there trying to take his head off in return?"

_"How can this be?"_

My friends are staring at me. I must have spoken aloud; I do not always know when I do. I do not always understand the mortal ways of thought and speech, of things they think and yet do not say. It is one of many things about the mortal world that I do not understand, that I struggle to understand, that Anders has always tried to guide and help me with -

\- but no more.

He is gone. He is dead and gone, and he will not be by my side again, he will not laugh at some foolishness of mine and loop gentle guidance around my mistakes. Who now will make the effort to understand me, to help me understand? Who now will make this world make sense?

It does not. It is senseless, arbitrary and cruel, that so great a part of the world should have been snuffed out in but a moment, and yet the world goes on. How? How do the walls not crumble, the roof not cave in with the force of the wrongs? How does the sky itself not shake with wrath for the injustice of it?

They expect me to be angry. I understand. I expect it too, and I do not know why I am not. There is anger in me somewhere, righteous and clean - but it is buried deep, it is drowning under a tide of senselessness, of helpless frustration. There is no room left for anger here - there is no place for purpose, no place for justice. No place for me.

"How can this be?" I whisper again. "Why... why..."

The others look among themselves, their quarrel over Rolan momentarily put aside. I can feel the wordless exchange of worry between them, worry for me. They do not think I am handling this well. They are correct.

"Justice," Nathaniel says, and he steps away from Velanna to stand by my side, to drop a hand to my shoulder. "We'll... we'll worry about what to do about Rolan later. For now, we need to focus on Anders. We'll get him cleaned up, laid out... it's too late tonight, but tomorrow we can give him a proper burning. I'll make all the arrangements."

"Oh, no," Sigrun moans, and the tears come again, silent uncontrollable weeping. "Don't burn him. Don't burn him. Do you have to? Can't you give him a nice burial in the Stone? If anyone's earned it, he has!"

Oghren heaves a shuddering sigh, dragging a hand down his face. "Don't be stupid, girl," he grunts wearily, sounding beaten down. "That's not the way humans do it. They don't give their dead to the Stone."

"I'm sorry, Sigrun, but it really is necessary," Nathaniel tells her gently. "A proper burning will send him on his way to the Maker, and... and especially with him being a mage, it's just... it's not wise to put it off too long."

I know what he speaks of, although he is too careful to say it in front of me. A corpse is an easy target for a spirit adrift in the world, seeking a physical form of its own. A mage's corpse is doubly so; even without the bright fire of a mage's spirit acting as a beacon to draw my kind, the magic in their blood and flesh still makes them a tempting shell for a haunting spirit. More dangerous, too, than the blood and flesh of a normal man.

"Oghren and I will tend to Anders," Nathaniel is saying. "Velanna, Sigrun, perhaps you two should get some sleep while you can..."

"I am not a child to be sent to bed," Velanna snaps. "Don't insult me."

"It's gonna be messy," Oghren warns her, when Nathaniel fails to find the words. "Probably not something you girls want to see."

"Casteless, remember?" Sigrun says tartly. "You think anyone grows up in dust town and stays squeamish for long? There's no messes I haven't gotten my hands dirty with before. Please let me help - I - I want to help..." She trails off, the last of her tears streaming down her face and dripping off her lowered chin.

"I as well," I say.

Nathaniel glances around. "It won't take all of us," he says. "Justice - why don't you go to the chapel? Someone ought to keep a vigil there, say prayers to guide Anders' spirit on his journey. You are among the Maker's first children; if He'll hear anyone's prayers, He's sure to hear yours."

He means it kindly. He believes it, but I do not think that I do. Never did I hear the prayers of mortals in the Fade, to guide departed souls or otherwise; if the Maker receives prayers, it is not there.

But Anders did believe. For all his doubt and grief about the Chant of Light, he truly did believe it; if he had not, the words would not have weighed him so deeply, the condemnation would not have hurt him so much.

This preparation that Nathaniel speaks of is, perhaps, a thing for mortal bodies - not for spirits, either here or in the world beyond. Not a thing for me. I will have to make my own preparations, and find my own answers.

"Very well," I say; and I can see the relief clear in Nathaniel's eyes, as he carefully leads me away.

* * *

It is late at night, the Chantry bells just tolled three. The Keep is still and silent, a pall having fallen over the already-grim fortress. I meet no one as I make my way out of the chapel, through the silent darkened corridors to the room where your body lies.

The darkness does not hinder me. I see by the light of the Fade, a blurred double vision that overlays the shadowed visage of what  _is_  with the memories of what  _has been,_  and the wispy imaginings of what  _may be._  I have never minded the dark.

Nathaniel did not tell me where they took your body, but it was not hard to find out. The others have all left now, gone to seek their beds in weary grief. Tomorrow will be hard; tomorrow we must set your body to burn, sever the last tie of your soul to this plane and let you go.

They've done their best to make you ready; I can see their love in the care they showed to your body. The blood has been washed away, the wound sealed closed. You have been dressed in a loose grey gown that extends from your shoulder to your knees, covering all hint of the violence that took your life. Your hair is loose and brushed, arranged around your shoulders; your eyes are closed, and your hands folded across your chest. Perhaps to mortal eyes, you would look as though you are sleeping; to the vision of a spirit, there can be no pretending. The vibrant glow that always lit you from within - the light of the soul, the dancing glitter of magic through your veins - it is gone now. It is dead.

Just a body, now.

With the light gone from under your skin, it is difficult for me to focus on you. Your skin is a pale uncertain blur, the waxen features all blurring and running together, and I cannot make them out. I want to be sure; I reach out and carefully brush my hand over your still face, trying to trace the features, to recall them from my memories. It is a touch that I would never have attempted while you still lived; you would not have welcomed it, the cold dead touch of a corpse, and I can feel nothing through the withered fingertips.

"Here you are, my friend, cold and dark," I say softly. I shift the touch of my hand to your hair; it seems right, some dim memory from Kristoff's time with Aura, although I still cannot feel it.

"You will not wake, you will not rise again and open your eyes, smile, or sing a ridiculous song while standing on the table at breakfast. You will not speak again, to chatter or argue or make convoluted jokes that no one else laughs at but you." I try to gather it back, to mimic the style you used to favor, but the strands fall between my clumsy hands and are lost again. "You will not heal again, drawing energy from the Fade or from your own soul to bring another life back from the brink. Your own life has been taken from you. Stolen from you.

"I could kill the one who did this to you." It's easy to imagine; it would be no challenge. Rolan's sword would hold no fear for me; I am not as mortal men. "I should. It would be just; he has killed without provocation, and taken from the world that to which he had no right. It would be justice, and justice has always been the ideal to which I aspired.

"But." My voice stumbles, wavers, struggles to go on. "But killing him would not change what has already been done. You would still be dead, the world would still be poorer for it. It would be a cold justice, serving nothing, helping no one, and it would be proper and just but it would not be  _right_. "

My hands clench with frustration, a reflex of this mortal body, as though it could grasp certainty out of the air if it held tight enough. "What purpose justice that does not serve the dead, nor comfort the living? It was  _you_  that he wronged. It is  _you_  that deserve to drive the dagger into his heart, as he drove his into your back. You alone should have that privilege. You alone deserve to make that judgment. You deserve that. You deserve to walk again, to live again, and I..."

The words echo in the empty chamber, unheard. There is no one here to hear it. I do not even know where mortal souls go when their lives are no more; do they truly depart this world for the next, or do they stay, rooted in the flesh and blood that bore them? Is Anders' spirit trapped in his flesh, as I am? Will the burning release him, as Nathaniel seems to think; will that truly be the end of Anders in this world?

The humans believe that the body is an no more than a glass, transparent and empty once the soul has been poured out. But then, the humans lie to themselves about many things. They have not seen it from both sides, as I have seen.

Kristoff was gone; yet his body remained, and with it his memories, his emotions, his purpose, his drive. With it remained so much of what made him himself. It is the same for Anders, it must be. His body is still here; his heart is still here. His memories, his hopes, his fears... his defiance, his irreverence, his hates and his loves, they are all still here. All that is lacking is a spark. All that is lacking is a spirit.

But this is no act for a spirit of Justice. To take another's body - unasked, unconsenting - that is the province of a demon.

"Would you forgive me for this?" I whisper. To Anders, to the Maker, to myself; who has the power to forgive me now? "Should you? You did not consent to this; you cannot. I do not know what is right, I do not know what will become of me. But I know that this is the only way. Justice failed you, my friend. Justice cannot bring you back."

Justice has failed. I have failed. Justice is all that I am and it is not enough, it is nowhere, it is nothing. It is not me. I am not. I am not. I am -

\- I am changing i am dissolving i am unfolding. I am transforming. I am Nathaniel's pain i am Oghren's hate i am Sigrun's grief i am Velanna's rage i am Anders -

\- I am becoming i am falling i am flying -

\- I am -

**"But Vengeance - Vengeance can."**

* * *

* * *

You come awake screaming.

Your voice echoes raw off the cold stone walls, unmuffled by carpets or tapestry, clamoring round and round in your head. It pounds, it pounds, every beat of your heart is an earthquake, scouring out your insides until you feel hollow. It hurts. Oh, Maker, why does it hurt so much?

Something is wrong. Something is terribly wrong. Everything about your body feels wrong, sick and clogged and heavy, stiff and seizing and weak. You can't seem to catch your breath, only wet gasps in a crushing ribcage; a foul taste fills your mouth and nose, a grey haze over your eyes. It's cold. Everything is so cold.

What... what did you have to drink last night...?

Last night. The last thing you remember was going to bed last night. There was going to be a party the next day; you know that, but you can't remember anything of the day that follows. Only brief, silent slivers of memories that vanish even as you grasp at them; a freeze-frame memory of the Vigil's dining hall filled with laughing Wardens, and you aren't entirely sure it isn't all your imagination filling in the blanks.

Nothing after that. Nothing at all.

Nausea grips you and you find the strength to roll over, spasms wringing your body as you retch over the side of the bed. Bed? It's not a bed you're lying on, it's a table. Why? This isn't the infirmary, it's not your room... it's not... it's not...

You try to blink past the fog gumming your eyes, and raise a trembling hand to wipe them clean. You catch sight of the sleeve on your arm and freeze. This wasn't what you were wearing to bed last night, either. What is this?

With a gasp you push yourself to a sitting position, hands trembling as you pat down over your body. It's a grey shapeless garment, like a nightgown or a patient gown. But this isn't the infirmary, and you're not a patient, you're the healer. The thought jars something loose in your mind, and you try to summon a bit of cleansing aura for yourself, to clear away the worst of the... hangover? Sickness? that grips you.

Magic shoots through your veins like molten lead, and your gasp of pain is nearly a scream; you release the spell as quickly as it came, but it's done its work. It recedes a bit, the churning sickness, the weakness, the pain; and you can finally think again.

This must be some kind of joke, you decide. Some kind of prank the others decided to pull on you - Nate's doing, probably, or maybe this is Oghren's sick sense of humor at work. Certainly you wouldn't put it past Oghren to have slipped something in your drink at the party, something that's the reason why you don't remember, something to knock you out while they play their silly games. You'll get up, and go find them, and you'll all have a good laugh.

Reassured by this thought, you push yourself to the edge of the table and make your wobbly way to your feet, swaying a bit before you steady yourself to stand. You take one step away from the table and turn for the door, and nearly trip over the corpse.

Metal clatters as you stumble, and pain shoots up your leg for a moment before it throbs and then stops. Heart in mouth, you summon a wisp to light your way, and when you take in the sight on the floor your heart nearly stops.

It's Justice.

Still and silent, eyes dull and limbs inert, thrown on the floor like a discarded rag. Your knees hit the floor with a shock of cold as you reach out, trembling, the words "No, no, no..." on your lips, over and over. You reach for magic, reach for the Fade, send energy into the plate-clad corpse to try to reach the spirit sheltered within.

There's nothing here. It's nothing more than Kristoff's shell; a warden lost to the line of duty, murdered by the Mother and properly avenged. Perhaps his wife can finally have his ashes, have her farewell; whatever was here, it's gone now.

"Why?" you gasp, tears welling in your eyes. It's all right; there's no need to weep. But you can't help but wonder anyway; did his body just... get too old? Fall apart too much, until it couldn't host a spirit any more? You all knew it would happen someday, but none of you could find a way around it. Did it finally happen? Did Justice return to the Fade, did he get to go home at last? Where is the spirit, where is Justice now?

It's so cold in here.

You pick yourself up off the floor, shivering, as much from fright as from cold. This isn't funny any more. One thing to have a good laugh at your expense, change up your clothes and leave you somewhere strange... but this is too much. Too far. You've got to get out of here, you've got to...

With the help of the magelight, you stumble across the floor, bare feet flinching from the freezing stone. You find the door, the bolt drawn back, and push it open -

Only to come face to face with Rolan.

The surprise on his face is obvious, would almost be comical under any other circumstance; it's clear he didn't expect to find you here. He stumbles back, the surprise giving way rapidly to fear, and hate. "Revenant!" he screams, and rips his sword free from the scabbard.

A smite crashes into you in the next moment, and your whole body ignites in flame. No more can you feel the cold, not with the fire that sears molten through your veins, seething and roiling with power. You cry out, but the scream is as much triumph as it is pain. You are done with running from Templars, done with hiding, done with cowering. Never again! You will never bow to them again!

The power is too much, it can't be contained in your flesh. White cracks split open along your veins, venting bursts of ethereal fire into the darkness of the corridor. I reach out, lunge forward while Rolan is still stumbling backwards, still shaken from the sight of seeing his greatest fear stagger to life. Sheets of fire roar from my hand, sheathed in a gauntlet of crackling flame; it rolls over Rolan's face and blinds him. He screams and drops his sword, bringing his hand up to claw at his eyes; all that he accomplishes is to sear his fingers too.

I'm not done. I let the motion carry me on, seizing Rolan's arm in my left hand to hold him fast and ripping across his chest with my right. He's wearing armor that crumples like tinfoil, with a horrible screeching sound and the smell of a living forge. His chest is bare, undefended, and one flame-wrapped hand thrusts into his ribcage to burn him from within.

Rolan screams and gurgles, and the sound is beautiful; the smell of burning flesh and metal, of scorched hair and charred blood, it is intoxicating. It courses through my body, through my blood, better than magic, better than sex, and this is right. This is good. This is  _vengeance._

The Templar collapses, only the last vestiges of life still twitching through the charred corpse. It is good. Never again will he hurt another mage as he hurt you. We will kill them all, bleed them, burn them,  _burn them_  -

"Justice?" you whisper, transfixed.

A shout down the corridor rips through you, and you freeze in place. Your hands are dripping with blood, flakes of bloody meat sliding off your skin to patter onto the floor, and your eyes are pools of fire. It's hard to see past the smoke and the blood, but there's a shape at the end of the hallway that you know - tall and slender, long dark hair bound in a neat queue, dark eyes in a pale face. Nathaniel Howe; fellow Warden, friend, and brother.

He looks at you, and at the corpse on the ground. He pulls an arrow from the quiver on his back, draws his bow, and fires down the corridor. At you.

Only startled reflexes save you; you raise your hand to protect your face, and the arrow goes right through your palm. Wildfire flares, engulfing the bolt; it crumbles to ashes and smokes away before you can even feel the pain in your hand. It cannot compare to the seizing, gripping, agonizing pain in your heart. Nathaniel? Why... why...

He must be one of them now. He has betrayed you to the Templars. He should pay...

No! Nathaniel is your friend; you won't harm him. It hurts, it hurts so much that he's turned on you, like everyone does, like you all do in the end. But you won't fight him. You won't fight, and there's only one thing you can do.

You turn and run.

* * *

You run, and you don't ever look back. You steal a horse from the Vigil's stables and ride, hard; turn it loose in the woods when it can no longer run beneath you. You spend a week in the woods, running, hiding, stealing what you need from households dotted throughout the woods. Boots. Food. Clothes. It's winter, and you pile on the layers to try to fight the chill that never releases you; leggings. Trousers. Two pairs of socks. A leather coat, and a woolen jacket on top of it, all on top of the shapeless gown you fled your old life in.

Every now and again, you think to get rid of it, to trade it for some finer shirt. But every time you take hold of the hem, something stops you; and you soon forget.

You find a road, and a cart on it with a driver who doesn't ask too many questions. You find a ship in a little smuggler's village that will take you out of Ferelden, and you don't ask too many questions either. You make it to the Free Marches, and remember a letter from long ago; slowly, you began to make your way to Kirkwall. You start again.

You try to make peace with the spirit inside you. It's hard, harder than you ever thought it would be, back when you ever agreed to take him in. You did... didn't you? You must have. It's all so hard to remember - so jumbled in your mind, two sets of memories from different perspectives, neither of them quite feel right. You struggle to make sense of it - your old friend is so changed now, and you don't understand why, except for a creeping sense of worry that something has gone terribly wrong.

But one thing you know for certain, as immutable as your own breath. And you tell Hawke unhesitatingly, when he asks,  _why did you do it?_

"I did it to save his life," I say, and I do not regret it, not even for a moment. "I did it to save him."

* * *

~end.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was actually originally germinated by a close examination of [Anders' DA2 outfit;](http://spader7.tumblr.com/post/20986960364) specifically, _what the hell is he wearing under that coat?_ To all appearances, it is a shapeless bag of unstitched grey fabric. Anders what are you wearing? Is that a potato sack? Is that a _burial shroud?_ Anders. Anders are you _dead?_ Did you die and _not notice?_
> 
> Thus, this fic.


End file.
